


Big, Warm and Perfect

by FrancesHouseman



Series: Dreams and Fantasies [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Guilty Pleasures, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dreams of Sam on his memory foam mattress. </p><p>Dean is either going to burn up or drown but he doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big, Warm and Perfect

 

 

Dean swears that he can smell Sam all around him as he drifts off to sleep. He knows that it has to be some kind of olfactory hallucination brought on by his lust addled brain but he welcomes this new crazy. He could only ever embrace something that makes Sam feel closer.

 

He sleeps deeply and when he dreams it’s of a hot summer’s afternoon and Sam is the Sun, pouring off light and heat. He runs clear off a cliff edge into the deep blue sky, feels the moment of nerves but finds that he can fly, as always, swooping up, reaching out. He stares at Sam, knowing that he will go blind but he’s fine with this, in the dream; happy because Sam’s face will be the one image branded on his soul.

 

There’s the glorious feeling of propelling himself through the air by thought, and Dean flies as fast as he can toward Sam. The air rushing past is cool but there is terrible heat as well. It has changed from clammy afternoon humidity to a dry and intense beam, scorching Dean’s head and fingertips. He surges forward but Sam doesn’t get any closer, only smiles his small and secret smile, always out of reach. Dean is going to burn up and he doesn’t care.

 

Dean’s phone wakes him, some stupid text message from the network and he curses himself for forgetting to put the thing on silent while he slept. His dream had been good, another flying one. Times when he’s happiest are filled with dreams of flying; times when Sam is near and neither of them are dying or drinking blood. It’s as though his body can’t contain the sweet anguish he feels during the day, needing to celebrate quietly at night.

 

He wishes that he could roll over and watch Sam sleeping, the way he can sometimes when they’re sharing a motel room. Sam’s face would be soft and untroubled in sleep, bathed in orange streetlight, cheek mushed on some lucky pillow. If the gap was small enough then Dean could blow across, making Sam frown adorably and twitch, maybe stir his hair. If he’s lucky and the room is hot then sometimes Sam sleeps on his back, naked to the waist, uncovered, legs tangled in sweat-damp sheets. It’s an invitation for Dean to caress his body with his eyes. He has spent hours trying to memorize every slope, hair and scar, studied Sam’s nipples, soft in the heat, begging to be licked, and his navel where Dean wants to kiss and dip his tongue. Sam’s throat would be long and vulnerable, his underarm hair slightly damp and Dean remembers the smell of Sam all around him earlier. He imagines tasting Sam’s skin, filling his senses even more, diving deeper into everything Sam. Dean is so far gone and he never wants to come up. He intends to swim in this nighttime ocean of lust for his brother for the rest of his days and when he finally drowns it will be sweet justice and absolution.

 

Dean gets up. He tells himself that he’s just fetching a glass of water but Sam’s door is ajar, his bed in plain sight. He stands in the gap, so finely attuned to Sam’s scent that the tiniest hint makes him itch and burn with want. He pushes the door softly, cringing at the chance that it will creak, ready to balk if Sam shows signs of waking. There’s no noise, only Sam sleeping on his side, miles of skin on his arm, shoulder and back visible above the sheets, rising and falling almost imperceptibly. Dean can’t see his face. He leans against the door frame and inhales deeply, holding it in and feeling light headed and ashamed.

 

Sam stirs and Dean slips away, no danger of creaking floorboards as he pads back to the kitchen on the cold stone floor. He runs the tap and clanks the glasses, in case Sam has woken up. His bed is still warm and welcoming, memory foam and white linen. He bunches up his pillow and pushes his forehead into it, eyes screwed shut. He imagines kissing and sucking at the back of Sam’s neck, in the ends of his hair, squeezes the pillow and imagines digging his fingers into Sam’s shoulders. Sam’s body would be hot under his. He would stretch his legs down the length of Sam’s, toes reaching Sam’s ankles, his body blanketing Sam’s back, his cock rubbing between Sam’s buttocks. Dean moans a mouthful of pillow and pushes both hands down between his body and the bed. He humps lazily into the heels of his palms and imagines Sam moving with him big, warm and perfect.

 

He had wanted to see Sam’s face in sleep, addicted to the confusion of emotions that take hold of him. Sam is both family, no longer dependent on Dean but still trusting and loving, knowing everything about Dean, all his faults and weaknesses and loving him anyway, and Sam is temptation and desire, powerful masculine sexuality, confidence and sharp intelligence. All Dean can think is that he wants to kiss, taste, breathe and come with him. He sobs against the pillow and climaxes silently.  

 

In the morning Dean will launder his sheets, wash away his guilt and the imagined smell of Sam. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will wash and repent but for now he is sated and content. He sighs and lets the gentle arms of sleep reclaim him, pulling him back down into his infinite ocean of sin.

 

If he dreams again he doesn’t remember it.

  
  



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